When the sad rumour of thy Fate
Fame, wingd with ill newes, did relate,
Extreame griefe language did orecome:
Light sorrowes speak, but true are dumbe.
I sighd my thoughts but could not find
Words wherein I might clothe my mind,
For language is too weak th'excesse
And height of sorrow to expresse,
And Poetry not gives releife,
But onely wantons with a griefe.
Thus I my silent thoughts supprest,
Whilst they still burn'd within my brest;
But yet as flames of fire conceald
Are stronger farre then when reveal'd,
Till the weake prison where they're plac't
Their violence breaks through at last,
So my vast griefs being growne too strong
By being hid, did find a tongue,
And since they would not silent be,
I them thus taught to speak, they me.